Phantasy Star Online: Episode I: A Novelization
by Kalas M. Fons
Summary: The story of PSO, made better for the sake of novelization by adding storyline. May disagree with the game or embelish points sometimes. A Joint Project by Kalas M. Fons, Marlo Voltaire, and Fanthe. We hope you like it as well as the sequels we plan to wr
1. Castrus and Daedalus

Castrus and Daedalus

_The Pioneer Project._

_A plan born of desperation, conceived in response to the imminent destruction of their home worlds. As plans for the evacuation began, unmanned probes were sent into deep space to find a habitable planet. When a potential site was discovered, the first interstellar transport ship, Pioneer 1, was sent to establish a colony. Pioneer 1 confirmed that the planet Ragol was a suitable location, and the initial colonists_

_started preparing the planet for the main wave of refugees, beginning with the construction of the Central Dome…_

_PSO Episode I: Introduction_

The infinite vista of interstellar space, even when the photon energy mechanisms allowed its contortion, could be beautiful. The one hundred and fifth level central observation deck was one of the few places people did not frequent on the massive _Pioneer 2_, the comfortable lounge furniture and immaculately clean flooring was empty most of the time, but not today, or tonight, or whatever time it might be.

And that was precisely what drove Castrus D. Regulus crazy. He enjoyed life on the _Pioneer_, that is, for about the first two or three months, the rest of the miserable years since they had left the planet Coral had been spent putting up with the slimy politicians who ran the place, Tyrell, and his ridiculous policies. On top of that, he never could tell what time it was.

He ran a gloved hand through his uncombed mane of silver white hair, which had lost its raven color so prematurely that it looked as if it had been an old man waving farewell to the _Pioneer 1_ all those years ago; though it had only been a child of eight or ten.

He frowned; it was strange for Daedalus to be late, the Lieutenant

Colonel in Tyrell's 'peace keeping' force was

renowned for his punctuality, and nothing short of incapacitation or incarceration normally held him up.

Their little meeting was far from abnormal, sometimes it would be in a VR arena for sparring matches or in a similar lounge to discuss what they would do with a new life on Ragol, such was the present meeting, unless the topic should change of course. Sometimes the extreme pointlessness of some of these discussions confused him; they would often meet, talk about something random, and leave without accomplishing anything.

As if summoned by his thoughts, a clacking beat of steps penetrated the rowdy air of the observation deck as wedged heel met metal floor.

Recognizing the relaxed—lethargic, even—pace of the Lieutenant Colonel even amidst the noises of the other refugees' daily lives, Castrus turned about to face the officer clad in a voluminous, dark indigo coat.

"Apologies," the Yellowboze caste member began, the subtly unique emblem of his identification caste complimenting the black and purples of his clothing with its golden glow, "Briefing for a last-minute assignment took longer than my superiors expected—" he stopped mid-step, halfway across from Castrus—" which, suffice to say, was long enough to begin with." Daedalus's smooth tenor faded for a fleeting moment, rendering the two silent before adding, "That said, I give you my belated greetings, Warrant Officer Castrus D. Regulus," speaking in a mock-theatrical tone noticeable in even _his_ voice.

His cerulean gaze drifted along to the panoramic view of stars, almost as if in deep thought. "So then," Daedalus inquired, "Was there anything out of the ordinary you wished to discuss with me or…?"

"Not really, I assume you saw the report, but Ragol and its two moons will be visible from this deck in about three days," he smiled slightly, "and then we can get our families back together!"

Sitting down, Daedalus smiled as well, "Yes we can."

Castrus pulled out a tube about three quarters as long as his forearm and about an inch in diameter, the metal was red with gold wire wrapped about it, an array of buttons were near the open end, "This is all of father's I have."

"His sword?" Daedalus asked, rhetorically.

"Yes," Castrus said, and pressed the largest button; a burst of light the size of a child's soccer ball expanded from the open end, contracting into a thin red beam of photon particles which terminated about three feet from the hilt's open end. The beam had also curved from the open

end around to the closed, forming a knuckle guard. The crimson spray of photon waved in a small circle as Castrus spun it over his head, then when Castrus released the button, vanished as immediately as it had come.

Surprised he had never asked, Castrus queried, "Did your father leave you anything?"

Daedalus nodded, rising from his reclined position. "Well, since you've asked—" from a loop on his belt he drew an oval cylinder half of his forearm longer than his outstretched arm—"This is something my father gave me when I came of age." It was a sheath, black with a single red line running along the rounded edge; the hilt of the weapon held within was a rosy color, with two adjoining, tear-shaped rubies embedded length-wise in the tapered pommel. Its cross-guard was longer than it was wide and had an elongated, hexagonal shape to it with patterns of flower petals engraved in the rosy metal. Daedalus drew the sword in his left hand, revealing a single-edged blade of crimson with the image of many cherry blossom petals embossed on its first third. Along the edge, roughly half an inch wide, ran a stripe of a more pinkish red, the pigment caused by the silvery tint of the

refined edge.

"A katana?" Castrus inquired.

Daedalus nodded, running his middle- and fore- fingers along the polished metal. "Guren," he muttered the katana's name, a hint of reminiscing in his sapphire eyes. "How disappointed I was then!" the Yellowboze

chuckled suddenly, a musical quality in his voice, "I was upset with my father for giving me an antique relic instead of a deadly, state-of-the-art weapon." He paused for a moment, almost as if he was reliving the moment. "How thoughtless were my actions back then."

Daedalus struck diagonally, from bottom-right to top-left, speaking as he moved. "Regardless, my father promised to impart Guren's mate to me if I was able to wield this weapon properly before we met again." He drew the weapon back and sheathed it in a fluid motion, returning it to its compartment in his dark indigo coat. "It should be quite an

occasion," he muttered half to himself.

"A unique weapon," Castrus observed.

"You have my thanks." Daedalus turned back to the Warrant Officer.

"Guren has served me better than I could have hoped for in the past," he added, "though I hope it won't have to see the face of a real battle any time soon." He sighed, resuming his tranquil pace toward Castrus. "Anyhow, I should be going now unless there's something else you wish to speak of," Daedalus excused himself, "I still have to finish the paperwork

Colonel Dorson assigned."

"Not today," Castrus answered, going off on his way with a swish of his

robes.

"Farewell," The other replied, turning his back to the Force with a pat on Guren's hilt. Daedalus couldn't help but feel an icy chill at the thought of what might happen if they didn't.


	2. Bruno

_PSO Episode I, Chapter Two: Bruno_

"Checkmate." A bland, young voice rang out that simple word as if it was bliss floating on a stream like a lily. "You lose, good day, sir." The HUcast (male android Hunter) made an incoherent noise that sounded a lot like "arrogant brat", and walked away shaking his red pointed skull. The arrogant brat reclined in his chair—of photon, naturally—and smirked. _They said artificial intelligence was the way of the future, but even the brightest can't beat a child in chess._ Chess was an archaic game, so old that only those who studied it or were programmed to know how to play knew it even existed. He took a deep breath and hacked violently from its bland, sterile taste.

"They killed our air," he said to himself, "All so that disease won't take them, heaven forbid they should die a natural death." 'They', of course, was the government, his employers. He ran his good hand through his icy blue hair. He loved how it could feel things; he loved how it could experience what his other hand couldn't: cold, heat, roughness, smoothness, and the list went on. As far as he could count, he had over 1,000 different things that his left hand couldn't feel that he was glad his right hand could. He removed his hand from his highly spiked hair, and moved it down to his sleeve, his left sleeve. He calmed his mind, and slowly pulled up the sleeve.

His mind struggled to stay controlled as he looked at the sight before him. Blackened muscle and seared flesh and bone. The sterile air reached it before long and the throbbing began, dull at first, then violently so! His entire arm shook from the pain as the air reached the torn wreckage of a limb that was his arm. He pushed a button on the upper part of his sleeve, a cloth part on his shoulder, and the amazing air tight material descended back over to cover his arm, with a small glove for his bony, puny, weak hand.

He continued to stare at his arm, although all that was left to see was the amazing material that covered it. The brat's outfit was unique, to be sure. A tight blue headband sat above his ears and on his forehead, keeping his spiky hair back in place. A tiny chain, made of a real metal, not something artificial, held a beautiful glass icicle that tucked into his robe. His robe was spectacular as well: a brilliantly dark blue with a black stripe going down the middle, wide at the top and thinning to none at the bottom, with one short sleeve, and then his left arm. His left arm was a marvel of modern technology, and the only thing he owed the government. It was all cloth until the shoulder, where the magic began. The shoulder piece of cloth had an interesting metal ring around it, in which it could shoot out the protective layer of rubbery material to wrap tight around his arm and hand, keeping it safe from the environment that sought to worsen the condition.

He leaned his head back and sighed. Nothing would have gone wrong if not for the Government, but they were always there to halfway undo their wrongs, at a price, of course. It had been seven years, long years, since his dad had sent word back from _Pioneer 1_that he could come on Pioneer 2. An invitation sent from Hell, as it would happen. Oh, he had been so excited at the time. He could go see his father and search for a new planet. But no. He wasn't a passenger; he was an experiment. They had taken him aboard with such bright, shining, smiling faces. They told him he would have his own room and everything. So he walked aboard. They led him to an incredible room, and then told him they had to do some tests, just to make sure he wasn't sick or anything.

Lying scientists. They didn't even bother to sedate him. Their greed for power was immense, and their folly great. They prepared him, and then brought the vat. It was full of a smooth, gold liquid, transparent and beautiful. Then, it happened. All at once, the smiling faces contorted with greed into the monsters they really were. Two of the stronger men he had ever seen grabbed hold of his limbs and torso, with the exception of his left arm. He kicked and screamed, wondering with the naivety of one who was only seven what was going to happen. Then their leader, the one with the most devilish face of all, stripped off his shirt and in a single flowing motion, submerged his arm in the vat.

Screams of horror, pain, and fear erupted from his mouth like vomit, and echoed throughout the room to the delight of the scientists. They wouldn't let him move. Only his face could express such agony. But what was worse, he couldn't escape, not even to his own mind. For every dark corner of his mind was illuminated, everything he had ever seen or done, and even things he hadn't, distorted by his hysteria flooded into his mind. His eyes rolled back into his head, and his face turned an extreme red. He couldn't fall unconscious. He couldn't escape. So he struggled in their arms, waiting to die. He was not blessed as such. The scientists kept watching, and slowly began to remove his arm from the evil, monstrous plasma. His arm did not drip it, for it was not a liquid at all. It was something more. The men restrained him, but his head moved in an animal like fury to his arm.

What awaited him was a bleeding, reeking, mass, like road kill, but still alive. It pulsed and burst at frequent intervals, and the scientists did nothing to aid him. They shook hands and took notes, congratulating each other on a job well done. He could move his arm. He began to swing around wildly with his free hand regardless of the pain, a cornered animal with nothing to lose and two things to gain: freedom and revenge. He slapped both of his restrainers and they fell to the floor, grown men, crying. What the others saw was two men with their eyes being swallowed, or eaten, and as they ripped their hair in vain, they died. The substance had reached their brains and had eaten it away, too. The boy stared at his captives, ready to strike and kill them, for the meaning of death was not yet known to him. They had slightly amused looks on their faces, and then the leader pushed a button. A large transparent box fell on him, separating the two dead men and himself from the rest of the world and the vat. He fell to the ground exhausted and in grave pain. Through his very blood he could feel the substance penetrating his being, mixing with blood. He looked to his side, where he had lain out his arm as to not touch the substance. The substance had gotten in through an open vein. In a feeble voice, he whimpered, "What…have…you…done?"

The lead scientist stepped forward, and glancing back towards his colleagues, cleared his throat. "In essence, we really don't know. You would be too young to understand the fine subtleties of what is happening to your body right now, or at least what we think is, but I shall tell you what that was. That gold energy is the highest level of refined Photon in the entire universe. That vat alone could power a sun. But alas, we do not need such power. So we experiment. You are the first of many to be infused with Photon. It's an honor really, to have such a magnificent item used on one as lowly as you. Not to mention it was free. The second your father heard the word scientific progress, he didn't bother to hear the rest. So, tell me, no, us, how do you feel?"

He smiled cruelly, and his perfect teeth glinted a gold color off of the vat of Photon he stood over.

"Horrible…" He gasped. He had never felt anything like this, he could barely get air, but his limbs burned with a coldness as to be empty, lifeless. "I…can't brea…" He was cut off as his esophagus closed in on itself. The scientists scurried about, and he fell unconscious into a deep sleep.

He awoke sometime later, with that scientist leaning over him, watching him like a vulture. He tried to sit up, but he found himself unable to do so. He was drugged, and the scientist explained to him that they had disconnected his brain from his muscles, temporarily of course, and with the exception of internal functions and the breathing and seeing functions. He went through various tests, until the scientist finally gave him verdict. He would never be able to run, he would always be asthmatic, he would always be weak from the Photon, which had drained much of his life force away when it was extracted. He would be plagued by a disease, an incurable one because of its uniqueness, that would slowly worsen the condition of his arm, then his other arm, and then finally his heart, lungs, and stomach, so that his entire upper torso would look the same on the inside as it did on the outside.

The scientist told him these things, and many, many more. That by age twelve his arm would have bone showing, and by age fourteen his entire arm would be corrupted by the Photon. By age sixteen his right arm would start to corrupt on the inside, and by twenty would look like his left arm at age twelve. Finally, the Photon would reach his heart and chest, and by age 30 he would die. The scientist then told him how they had given him such promising numbers. The robe he would wear for the rest of his life would have a function, allowing him to seal off his corrupted body parts from air and the environment. Without this suit he would not last until sixteen years of age. However, the scientist related to him, this suit and the doubling of his life span would come at a price.

The scientist then told him what he must do: for all of his living years, he must serve the government as a Force, a FOmar, as they call male human forces.

"The Photon has granted you a gift; you are one of the few who have enough skill to potentially wield techniques. The Photon has left something in your blood, and you will now be put to the test. Read this disk, and then think what it says." And the end result was this: a wonderful frozen sculpture, and the beginning of his career as a Force.

He snapped back to reality at the end of his daydream. A RAcast, or male android Ranger, was tapping him on his good shoulder, pointing him off towards the exit of the lounge. "Role call. Something's happening down on the planet. You're invited."

"Gee. What fun. Thanks anyway." And then he got up and left, walking, never running down the hallway. He arrived at the room just in time, as it seemed, because numerous other Hunters, Rangers, and Forces were already lined up, being called forward one by one.

"I am Lieutenant Colonel Daedalus Falken. Your position, child?" asked a black-haired man in a robe-like, indigo coat. At this, the Lieutenant

Colonel looked up and smirked coolly.

"Caste, Skyly. Job, Force. Skill level, wait and see. Title, The Ice Mage.

Name, Bruno Fortissimo."


End file.
